: Written and illustrated by
Fatma Ragab Azzam
Yesterday morning, when the sunlight brushed against my eyes, I reproached myself—as though I had caught it in some hidden crime.
A crime my eyes had concealed, only to reveal it in the dream of the previous night, when they felt safe enough, certain that I had truly fallen asleep. I accused them of having summoned you—though I had not. The truth was simpler: you had merely visited me in a dream.
We were companions on a journey, each with a bag slung over a shoulder, wandering through the paths of struggle in search of survival. We met at a door—an old door to a distant house, its outer walls inscribed with scattered directions that led nowhere.
When we met—without greeting—we agreed that I would accompany you on your journey, no matter how difficult, to bring your father out of the lake. Without hesitation, I gathered my things to share in your purpose.
When we set out, we found children caught in a wind that threatened to uproot them. I told you we stood before two choices: to leave them behind to their dark fates, or to save them—and trust that God would save the one for whom we might be delayed. That was a certainty.
You agreed, and we took another path, saving the children along the way. Then we walked on together until we encountered an army of enemy mercenaries advancing toward us, their weapons aimed at our faces, our heads—but not our hearts. So we held on to calm, and to each other’s hands, only to discover moments later that we were alive, unharmed—and that your father had been brought out safely.
In the morning, I did not think that the world could be made right simply by the meeting of our hands.
But I remembered the feel of your hand in mine…
and I blamed myself
.
